I hadn’t gone there
expecting to see anyone,
especially not him,
the lonely, frightened boy
who’d sneak out the backdoor
of the miserable farmhouse,
hurry down the worn path,
while in his mind
repeating over and over,
“Not me, not me, not me,”
hoping to keep at bay the demons loose
in the darkened rooms behind him.

But there I was. Years later,
come back to the place I’d fled,
vowed never to return.

Windows of the abandoned house broken,
door swinging back and forth in the wind.
Apple trees overgrown in the orchard,
barn collapsed into itself
only the concrete silo left standing.

And the stillness—
it was never quiet then.
Rabid screams pierced the walls
tumbled into the yard
roiled out into the fields
suffocating the land’s natural tranquility.

I made my way around the derelict granary,
ruined toolshed and gateless fence
toward the still visible trail
leading to the big field on the hill.

I moved quickly, tall lanky man I’d become,
meadow to my left, pasture to the right
beyond the stand of oak trees toward the field.

And there he was.

Alone

Sitting on the same flat boulder
slumped over, head in his hands.

Quietly I made my way up the hill.
Thought he’d be startled, afraid,
but he looked straight at me,
right into my eyes and said,
“It’s you!”

“Yes, it’s me.”

I lowered myself down beside him.
Together we sat looking out over the field
toward the pine trees framing the horizon.

“You don’t die,” I whispered.
“I want to.”
“I know! But we don’t die.” “We escape.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, I promise.”

He laid his little blond head on my shoulder.
I encircled him with my arms,
closed my eyes,
felt his slow steady breathing,
the softness of his hair,
the warmth of his small body against mine.

Quietude enveloped us.
Wind rustled the stalks of corn,
carried the scent of late summer—
drying hay, wild clover.

When again I opened my eyes,
realized I was once more by myself.

On the hillside.

Alone